Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The KingSkipwith Cannéll
S
Bearing before them upon a silver shield
The secrets of my enemy.
With stately and hypocritical gesture
In a row before me,
One stumbled.
The dull, incurious eyes of the others
Blazed into no laughter,
Only a haggard malice
At the discomfiture
Of their companion.
Not spoken for in the rules of men?
I would not receive them.
With my head covered I motioned them
To go forth from my presence.
Worthy of me as him they defaced?
As they left me,
Bearing with them
Lewd shield and scarlet crown,
One paused upon the threshold,
Insolent,
To sniff a flower.
Safely.
Therefore
I have renounced my kingdom;
In a little bronze boat I have set sail
Out
Upon the sea.
Is black like the pool of ink
In the palm of a soothsayer,
Is black like the cypresses waiting
At midnight in the place of tombs.
My boat
Fears the white-lipped waves
That snatch at her,
Hungrily,
Furtively,
As they steal past like cats
Into the night:
And beneath me, in their hidden places,
The great fishes talk of me
In a tongue I have forgotten.